


Unspoken Words

by SumiSprite



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Challenge fic, He thought Mondatta hated him for leaving, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Letters, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad Tekhartha Zenyatta, Very Sad Omnic, letters from the dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumiSprite/pseuds/SumiSprite
Summary: It's been years since Mondatta's assassination, and Zenyatta has long since gone on to believe that his brother, to his last breath, resented him for leaving. The sudden appearance of a package full of letters he never received may just prove otherwise...





	1. Anonymous

**Author's Note:**

> So...like, I promised myself I’d never write for the fandom, and...well, this has been sitting in my Google Drive for about a year now, and it’s not like I’m entirely breaking my personal promise, I’m just being an asshole I guess?
> 
>  _ **Please note!**_ The timeline in this fic is not canon complacent for plot reasons, I never played the games and am only somewhat familiar with the timelines, I just like the robots just shut up and _let a bitch live._
> 
> From a prompt I decided to drop in [dibs3l’s Tumblr.](https://dibs3l.tumblr.com/post/172484684211/zen-week-has-ended-and-i-recently-stumbled-upon)
> 
> This is kind of an experiment! Please read the end note to see what this means! 
> 
> Um...enjoy the angst? QwQ 
> 
> !S!

Genji never expected to be receiving a worn, stamp-beaten package from an Overwatch office grunt first thing Monday morning. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he wandered down to drop off a recent mission report for himself and his master, but it hadn’t been this. 

The package was about the size of a large shoe box, wrapped in torn and beaten brown paper and burlap string. It had a fairly decent weight to it, but minute shifts lent no hint as to what could be inside. Stamps marking its various destinations almost entirely hid its origin of address, but Genji’s sharp eyes managed to pick out where it had come from. 

Reading the address and who it was meant to go to had him snapping his head up to look at the report secretary. Seemingly sensing the look of bewilderment behind Genji’s mask, the man shrugged.

“It was given to our intel department about a week ago,” he said, “Safety regulations and all that. Scans show nothing dangerous inside…”

He shifted from foot to foot, fingers drumming over the desk and looking anywhere but at Genji. “I recognized the address, and the name of the recipient. I heard you were down here, so I figured I’d pass it on to you.”

Genji felt his shoulders drop, a wash of gratitude overcoming him. He quietly thanked the man for his discretion, asking him to let him know if any other items land in his hands addressed to Zenyatta. Somewhat reluctantly, he began his trek back to the Overwatch crew quarters.

He could not imagine what his master would think if the package mailed from the Shambali monastery went directly to him. And only a week before the anniversary of Mondatta’s death...

The ninja stared at the package in his arms as the elevator took him up to the main base. Two years to the day, and his master was once again being crushed under an amalgamation of emotions. Guilt, sadness, anger, mourning, more guilt, anger at himself, more sadness, more guilt.

Genji’s hands tightened around the package. His master had not been the same since Mondatta died. He rarely spoke of Mondatta, and he seldom spoke to him even prior to the assassination. Words once laced with a bittersweet fondness now fell into a weary tone of grey remorse and longing. Everyone had silently agreed not to mention the pale Omnic’s name in his presence, and to change the channel quickly if any mentions of memorials came up on the television during anniversaries. Even Torbjorn was exercising sensitivity, and wasn’t that just saying something?

The elevator gave a cheery _ding_ and opened, and the cyborg found himself torn. The long hall dotted with doors intimidated him in a way he despised, his thoughts dominated by less than honorable - and technically illegal - ideas. Was he truly contemplating just getting rid of the package and forgetting about it? 

Of course he was, he thought sourly. He had fond memories of the Shambali, and held eternal gratitude for their aid in helping him overcome his personal demons. But his master came before any meager fondness he had for them. And every volatile emotion inside him was screaming at him to spare his master the pain and burn the damn thing. 

Zenyatta had been plagued by guilt ever since he left the Shambali. He knew how much his leaving had hurt his brothers and sisters, Mondatta more than anyone. They had parted on a slightly bitter note, and it was one of the very few actions Genji was sure he would never forgive himself for. It had taken coaxing from Genji for Zenyatta to admit that he wondered if his brothers and sisters hated him for leaving. And in spite of Genji’s reassurances, Zenyatta still held certainty of their antipathy. Genji had entirely disagreed, but his master would not be swayed, and simply dropped the topic. They had a world to see after all, there is no reason to waste time on regrets. 

Their travels eventually found them taken within the ranks of Overwatch, and Genji was suddenly struck with inspiration. His master needed an outlet for his dour emotions, some form of proof that he was still beloved and missed. And now that they were no longer wandering, the ninja presented his master with a stationary kit. Paper, stickers, envelopes, inks and pens of various colors, it all bewildered Zenyatta until Genji explained himself. 

“You should write to them!” he suggested. “We have an address now...kind of. Getting responses through security will be a little difficult, but not impossible. But I’m sure Master Mondatta would love to hear from you.”

Though surprised, Zenyatta had not been opposed to the idea. He took to the writing eagerly and with an energy the ninja found both endearing and relieving. The plan was to write a few letters to Mondatta to test the waters, simply send a few casual inquiries. Electronic communication had long since overtaken the weary and worn “snail mail” systems, but it was a novelty that many still used to keep it alive. Barely. All of Mondatta’s electronic communications were managed by his security team regardless, and his digital addresses were changed numerous times a month. And with Zenyatta no longer being regarded as a Shambali, he could not get Mondatta’s contact information. They had to make due with what they had. 

No replies ever came. Genji assured his master that it took time. He was sending letters to _Nepal_ of all places, and replies were coming through dozens upon dozens of security measures to protect Overwatch. A few more weeks is probably all that was needed. Zenyatta cautiously agreed. 

Months later, nothing turned up. His master was not deterred though. The mail system was horrible, and the monastery wasn’t easy to reach. Mondatta was often swamped with “fanmail” too, his letter was probably hidden in the pile somewhere. One more month couldn’t hurt. In the meantime, he’d write some more. Perhaps his first few letters got lost in the mail. 

Two more letters were sent over two months. Genji stood by, his own confidence waning. Mondatta was a busy Omnic, he told himself. He traveled a lot too, perhaps his master’s letters were on his desk in Nepal waiting to be read by him. He encouraged his master to write more.

There were no replies. 

Months passed, and still Zenyatta wrote. The other Overwatch agents took notice, and inquired to Genji about what his master was doing when they found the Omnic so focused on some parchment and ink. Genji could only give a stiff reply and silently asked them not to bother his master about it. 

Angela once asked how long he had been waiting for a reply. Genji did not know what to say. 

No one asked any more questions. Lena gifted Zenyatta with a brand new fountain pen, adding her own encouragements to Genji’s own weakening enthusiasm. 

A year passed. Zenyatta burned through three high-grade pens, all gifted to him by Lena. The lack of replies was adding onto the burden of his remorse in leaving the monastery. Genji never read the letters, but he could tell his master was trying to keep them cheerful, or at least informative and interested in his brother’s day to day life. He often enclosed dried flowers or leaves in them, carefully picked from whatever location they visited for missions. Silly souvenirs that could fit in an envelope also went in: a handmade bookmark, a sample of embroidery thread, a seashell, quotes copied from books Zenyatta thought Mondatta would like, even a postcard or two.

“Perhaps they will encourage him to write back…” he had said as he dropped the envelope into an out-box. Genji didn’t say anything. 

A year and five months. Zenyatta still kept writing; out of desperation or a means of comfort, Genji could not be sure. Perhaps it was both. It must be therapeutic, he imagined. But he could not help but think it bordered on being a little unhealthy. His master’s once exuberant, sunny energy was waning. Lena was getting worried, but still gifted him with a pen when the old one was used beyond its limit.

His master was getting quieter, meditating more and exploring less. He still did as much as he could to work with the other agents, to help others, but there was something staining his bright aura. 

Genji found himself recognizing it. It was the same stain of confused hurt he had carried with him after his own brother nearly killed him. And after recognizing it, he knew Zenyatta could only be thinking of so many different questions, but one was likely repeating itself in his processors: _why?_

Why isn’t Mondatta writing back? Why isn’t he saying anything to me? Why is he so silent? Why is this happening? Why does it hurt so much? It was my decision, I have to live with the consequences, and yet-!

_Why did I leave?_

Two years since they joined Overwatch; three years since they left. Zenyatta tentatively began writing less and less, now down to only one letter every three months. Genji watched his master pull himself back together as much as he could and rejoin him in the present. He slowly began to recover. Guilt and hurt still clung to him, but it wasn’t as pungent. It hung like a grey mist around him, thin in a few areas, thick in others. He interacted with the others more, finally starting to laugh more freely, his focus sharpening during missions. 

But once the distractions of travel, meeting new and old friends, and short bursts of celebration were left behind to favor recharge or rest, his remorse thickened. His depression - for that is certainly what it was - would build and crescendo, and another letter would be written. 

Genji had wondered if his master was even hoping for a reply anymore. Perhaps it was just habit by that point, slowly and steadily breaking over time. 

A week before the New Year, surrounded by crumpled and scratched out wads of paper, Genji found Zenyatta crying in the middle of writing what would be his final letter to Mondatta. And Genji, in both parts anguish and relief, held him tight to let him ride out the final fracture that burst the dam. 

He stopped writing, and stopped wishing for replies as the new year rolled by.

Genji never imagined the seemingly bright chance of a new start would only bring Zenyatta more heartache…

On the evening of a long, yet successful mission in Numbani, Zenyatta and Genji would see the news come on and strike the chrome Omnic with another emotional wound that would haunt him till his last artificial breath. 

Three inches of lead, and a blink of Tracer’s chronal accelerator. 

Less than a second, and Mondatta’s life was stolen. 

The emotional backlash had been nothing short of devastating. Zenyatta shut himself away, withdrawing so deep into himself that not even Genji could entirely reach him. Lena seemed to put herself into her own exile, ashamed and overwhelmed with a guilt that no one could pull her out of. 

Genji had never felt so helpless, not since his darkest days after being reformatted into a cyborg.

“Time heals all wounds, but it won’t heal scars,” Angela told him when he was at his wits end. “All you can do is support him and be there for him…” A sad smile overtook her lips. “Just like he was there for you in your lowest time.”

The ninja barely managed to fulfill her advice, strained and confused and doubting his own words and actions to comfort his master. It took Zenyatta months to recover enough to put on a false mask of tranquility and ease, and many more for the nightmares to stop. He and Lena seemed to find a mutual solace in each other, but with time, they learned to forgive themselves, and they recovered a little more. 

Zenyatta was still deeply wounded though. Mondatta’s assassination left a gaping hole inside of him that only served to nurse the idea that the Shambali and Mondatta himself were apathetic towards him. He believed that Mondatta had been hurt by his leaving more than he realized, and that, till his last dying moment, he perhaps hated Zenyatta. 

Genji had been powerless to change his master’s mind. It didn’t help that none of the Shambali had tried reaching out to Zenyatta, either before or after Mondatta’s assassination. Neither of them were sure if the Shambali were still around anymore. Mondatta had been their leader, their symbol, their reason for being who they were, as much as the pale Omnic would have protested otherwise. And no one had the heart to so much as pull up an internet search of the status of the Shambali Order.

Genji wanted to suggest visiting the monastery, just to check in with the other monks. But after being left so long in silence, he was beginning to wonder if his master was _right._..

The cyborg shook his head, stepping out of the elevator. No, whatever was in the package, his master deserved closure. Be it confirmation or contradiction to his thoughts and feelings, it was what he needed. He could only hope whatever was inside would comfort his master.

He steeled himself as he carefully knocked on his master’s door, before letting himself in. The room was small but tidy, boasting a recharge station and bed, a desk and bookshelf, and a few odds and ends Zenyatta had collected over their travels. The door that had once been a closet had been torn down to become a door that led into Genji’s own room; a way to lend them both privacy when needed, and a way to their companion when desired. 

“Master?” he called softly. 

Zenyatta lifted his head from its position leaning against the window by his bed, turning to look at his student. The movement was slow, sluggish. It was a saddening, but familiar sight; even two years after Mondatta’s death, his master seemed to fall into the same repeated depression every year. Genji imagined he would be reliving his grieving period as the anniversary went by. 

“What have you got there, my student?” Zenyatta asked. 

Genji shut the door behind himself, approaching the bed and offering the box to his master.

“It is for you,” he said evenly, “Someone from our intel department picked it up.”

“For me?” Zenyatta cocked his head, bleak aura slightly subdued by curiosity and confusion. “Who is it from?”

Genji briefly hesitated. “The Shambali.”

Zenyatta’s plates stiffened minutely, array lights flickering. His pistons whirred as he looked at the box. If his face were emotive, Genji would imagine he would hold an expression of surprise and apprehension. 

The chrome Omnic reached up and carefully took the package, setting it on his lap. He simply stared at it for a long handful of seconds, as if trying to figure out if it was real or not. 

“Do you know what it is?” he asked. The cyborg shook his head.

“I have no idea,” he said, “The worker said it’s nothing dangerous, but I didn’t think to ask if he knew what was in it.” In hindsight, maybe he should have. 

“I...I see…” Zenyatta sounded so uncertain. He was hardly ever so confused and hesitant, even during his lowest moments. Genji shifted from foot to foot.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, “So you can see what it is?”

His master’s head whipped up towards Genji, array dimming.

“No. That is…” His vents puffed in a sigh. “I am...not feeling entirely myself. If you have the time, I would appreciate if you stayed.”

 _I’m not sure I’m strong enough to see what’s inside._

Genji nodded, silently relieved. He would shamefully admit to wanting to stay not just out of concern for his master, but also an oddly placed sense of curiosity. He took a seat on the edge of the bed beside his master.

The string was easily snapped and untied, and the paper torn away. Under it was the box itself, but also what appeared to be an envelope sitting on top of it. On its front was written Zenyatta’s name and nothing more.

The Omnic decided to read what was inside it first, carefully tearing the flap open. He pulled out two sheets of paper.

“What does it say?” Genji asked. Zenyatta shook his head, taken aback himself as he began to read.

_Zenyatta,_

__

_You probably do not remember me, but that is hardly a fact worth considering right now. I will cut to the chase. I recently ran across what I can only call a “hidden stash” of certain items that were meant to go to you over the span of three years. None ever reached you though, and all because of a now former Shambali monk who went out of their way to hide them._

_Enclosed in the box are dozens of-_

Zenyatta paused, array blazing white and synth creating a broken sound. Genji himself had stiffened, both of them staring at the box still in the Omnic’s lap. Zenyatta forced himself to keep reading, but his hands were starting to shake.

__

_Enclosed in the box are dozens of letters Master Mondatta had sent to you, as well as a few of your own letters. None of us were aware they were not being sent out, and I sadly can only offer my sincerest apologies for not finding them sooner. I do not live in the monastery, but I had heard rumors of Master Mondatta’s growing grief. I had seen it for myself a few times during my visits. As far as I know, none of the letters you sent have been read by him, hidden alongside the letters he tried to send to you. I can only assume a few of yours were thrown out; I only found a dozen or so of your letters to him. But all of the letters Mondatta had tried to send you are in this box._

Genji slowly shook his head, eyes wide and jaw tightening behind his mask. Someone...someone _within the walls of the Shambali monastery_ had been going out of their way to see that neither Zenyatta or Mondatta heard from one another, and for almost _three years._

His master’s voice was glitching, lacing with static as he read on.

__

_He heard of your joining Overwatch, and upon realizing he had a means of contacting you, he began writing about a month after news reached us. But the effort was doomed before the ink even dried, it seems. I can only speculate to the culprit’s motives. They were a new trainee, one of many who came to us a few weeks before you left. A great admirer of Mondatta’s. They practically doted on the poor man. I think even he was growing annoyed at the former monk’s clinging. I would imagine after you left, they grew to resent you for the heartache Mondatta experienced. It does not excuse them in any way, shape or form, but it is the only conclusion I can draw. They have long since been expelled from the Shambali Order once I brought this to the attention of the others._

_Once more, I can only offer my apologies. It seems I too figured you had simply moved on and wanted nothing to do with the Shambali, and your fellow monks were left to conclude the same. But not Mondatta. He kept writing to you in the hopes of hearing a reply, just one. He never did, and we could only watch his grief drag him farther away over the years._

_Please, do not take this as if I - the Shambali - are blaming you. You deserve to know how much Mondatta missed you. After all this time, I can assume you yourself thought the same thing he did; that you held resentment for him, either due to different ideals or a personal matter we are not aware of. Cease these thoughts at once._

_Master Mondatta, to his dying breath, loved you with all his heart…_

Genji moved forward to help keep his master’s hands steady, trying to ignore the shaking of metal shoulders and silently reading over the static garbling Zenyatta’s words. 

__

_I am sorry it has taken so long for you to have your closure and your letters. I am even more sorry that Mondatta will not know what happened; or perhaps he does know now, wherever he is._

_These are all of the letters I could find. You will also find a few items I know he wanted you to have. Do what you wish with the box’s contents._

_You will always have a home among the Shambali. Mondatta would have wanted you to know this._

_Take care of yourself, and I hope this package reaches you well and without trouble._

_~Naga_

Zenyatta’s fingers released the letter, his hands going to cover his face and muffle his glitching synth. Genji was suddenly on his feet and pacing the length of the room, fists clenched and teeth gritting.

“Hiding…” he snarled, “Someone at the monastery was _hiding_ these from both you _and_ Mondatta this whole time?!”

Zenyatta shook his head, dazed and overwhelmed. His hands shakily dragged down from his face, clutching his aching heart. He stared at the box in a new light, his apprehension and anxiety mounting. But there was now a painful, circuit-deep sense of _hope_.

“I do not know…” he said, synth rasping in barely contained emotions. “I do not know what to say…!”

Genji stopped in his pacing, rushing back to his master’s side. Sliding down on his knees, he carefully held shaking metal hands between his palms.

“Who is Naga?” he asked; he did not want to see his beloved master have a breakdown now of all times, appropriate as it would be. It was best if they worked out just what was happening in the now, starting with the identity of their mysterious sender. The name was only vaguely familiar to him.

“The grounds keeper and the Shambali’s gardener,” Zenyatta answered, one hand coming up to cradle his faceplates again. “He was a recluse, only coming up to us to tend to our gardens. I do not believe you ever met him, but Mondatta visited him sometimes. He collected herbs and other plants for our infirmary, and acted as a guard to the monastery.”

Genji nodded, unsure how to take the sudden introduction of this Omnic who apparently was connected to the monastery, but did not seem to be a monk. He recalled the name in passing when he resided at the monastery with his master, but not a faceplate. 

He let Zenyatta’s hand slip out of his grasp and watched with uncertainly as the Omnic began to open the box. The abused tape gave way easily, the four flaps blooming open.

Inside was everything Naga had described: dozens of worn letters, stacked and bound neatly with the same burlap string as the box itself. A couple smaller boxes were wedged in alongside the letters; the possessions Naga deemed Mondatta wanted Zenyatta to have. Hay was stuffed into the gaps, lending a tight, secure fit to keep everything intact.

There were _so many_ letters from Mondatta, at least forty or fifty letters. All were in pristine condition. About fifteen letters were yellowed and tattered; the letters Zenyatta sent and were never received by Mondatta. 

Zenyatta’s voice cracked, his vents huffing and puffing to cool overheated systems as he reached in to gently gather a few letters in his hands. He keened as he took in the aged strokes of familiar handwriting on the envelopes, all addressed to him, stamped and ready to be received. 

And they had sat in some hideaway, waiting and gathering dust, never to be seen by Zenyatta if Naga had not found them. Three years left to rot between the folds of envelopes. 

Genji felt his heart quiver and his anger rise. He could feel his dragon roaring and screeching just at the edge of his consciousness, and it was all he could do to keep the furious beast from bursting out to find the culprit and tear them apart. His master had been suffering for years because of them, heartsick and praying for just one letter from Mondatta. And all because some spiteful monk had decided that Mondatta should not waste his time on a former Shambali. 

His fingers curled into tight fists, wrath mounting.

“Genji…”

The cyborg broke from his furious resolve, looking at his master with wide, hidden eyes. His anger extinguished as he took in the Omnic’s slumped and exhausted form. 

“Yes, master?” he asked softly, resisting the urge to take the other into his arms to comfort. 

Zenyatta said nothing at first, seemingly fixated on the single box holding three years’ worth of misunderstandings and grief. The Omnic looked at Naga’s letter, optics focusing on one of the last few sentences.

_Master Mondatta, to his dying breath, loved you with all his heart._

He wanted to believe those words. Oh, how much he wanted to believe him, and yet…

All the proof he needed was held in these letters; either the confirmation or denial of it. 

“I know I asked you to stay, but…” He reset his synth, dizzy and anxious. “I think I need to do this alone.” 

“What?” Genji shook his head, pulling his visor off to fully look at Zenyatta. “Master, with all due respect, I cannot leave you alone like this.”

“You believe I would harm myself?” Zenyatta inquired without inflection.

“No!” Genji reeled back as if struck. “No, never! I-I simply mean that-!”

He stiffened upon feeling his master’s hand touching his arm. Zenyatta trilled apologetically. 

“I am sorry,” he said, “I should not have said that. I know you are concerned, my student. But...as of now, I am not a master. I am too raw to be a master. Right now, I am Mondatta’s student, and I need to be alone with him now.”

Genji felt the knot forming in his stomach loosen only slightly. He suddenly thought of his own brother, of their steadily rebuilding relationship. He thought about how _lucky_ they were to even have the opportunity to rebuild themselves as brothers. Zenyatta, on the other hand, he would never be able to rekindle what he and Mondatta had. The relationship Genji had silently envied as he watched the two brothers would never come back. All Zenyatta had left of Mondatta were letters with yet known contents, and the simple, pleading hope that Naga was right.

He reached up to gently grasp Zenyatta’s hand, his gaze sympathetic and worried.

“Will you let me check up on you every now and again?” he asked pleadingly. “You still need to recharge and rest. I don’t want to see you run yourself to the brink again.”

Zenyatta felt his core warm at his student’s concern, but also clench in tight sympathy and all too familiar guilt for making the other worry. But he _needed_ this, he needed to know what his brother had been trying to tell him. He needed the closure these letters could give him. At the very least, he would like to know if Mondatta resented him for leaving.

“You may,” he said gently. “I apologize, Genji. I know I am asking a lot of you, but…”

“No, don’t. I get it,” Genji said, offering a wane smile. “You need this, just like I needed to speak with my brother. Just...please come to me if you need to? I don’t care if it’s just to cry, or scream or meditate, just let me help you.”

Zenyatta’s array flickered in a smile. “I will, my student. I promise. And...could you possibly inform the others I will be preoccupied for an undetermined amount of time?”

It was more than what he had asked for, but the promise soothed Genji all the same. The request to tell the others to leave him alone for a while worried Genji, but he understood the request regardless. It was as Zenyatta said; he needed to be alone with his master - his brother - now. He did not need to be disturbed by others prying out of misplaced curiosity or well meaning sympathy. 

Assuring his master he would let the others know that he was not to be disturbed, Genji took some liberties and drew the other into a brief hug before he departed. Zenyatta watched the door slide shut, a tad taken aback by the sudden embrace he had been unable to return. Again, he felt his heart warm at his student’s concern, and hopefully bolstered by it, he considered his box of letters and items. 

The letters come first, he decided. Fingering through them, he found them all to be marked and dated, and Naga had placed them in chronological order. His own letters turned out to be the earliest ones he sent, and he silently concluded that the monk who hid them simply began throwing out the rest as they came. All were meticulously bound and carefully slotted into the box to ensure they arrived intact and legible. 

He made a mental note to somehow contact the recluse and thank him for sending the letters; provided he was in the emotional state to do such a thing. 

_‘One step at a time,’_ he told himself. 

Drawing cool air through his intakes, then releasing a heated puff, Zenyatta picked up the first letter. He noted the elegantly drawn characters of his name, recognizing the even lines of Mondatta’s pen. He carefully tore open the flap, pulling out the sheet of paper folded inside. He began to read. 

To be continued...


	2. Unanswered

_My dear Zenyatta,_

_I apologize that I have not been able to contact you until now. I hope you can forgive my excuse; it is difficult to find a means of speaking to you in any way as you and Genji travelled. But recently - just last night in fact - I received word that you and young Genji have joined Overwatch._

_I know we have our differences of opinion on the matter of defending others and ourselves. As you read this, I wonder if you are expecting me to scold you and your decision. Rest assured, my light, I am not._

_I may not entirely agree with the actions you take, but I will always, always be proud of and approve of your intentions. I must admit to a bit of selfishness on my part. Your joining means I can finally contact you now! Letters are rather old fashioned, but then again, so am I. That, and I have no other means of contacting you. I have never personally met anyone from Overwatch, but I can guess they wouldn’t just give me a calling number or message code. And of course, my security team are as fussy as ever and will not allow me to send out a personal contact to anyone. It is utterly ridiculous…_

_But that is enough of my griping. How are you? How is Genji faring? If at some point you have the time, I would love to hear of yours and Genji’s travels. Have you gone to Numbani yet? You have always wanted to see the city of harmony itself. I have actually been contacted by Numbani’s mayor recently, and she wishes to host us in the city for a while. Perhaps our paths will eventually cross. A few of our brothers and sisters and I will be staying in Numbani for a couple of weeks for a few speeches and volunteer work._

_Your brothers and sisters miss you greatly. As do I. Many ask after you, hoping you have found a way to contact our isolated monastery. It is a fleeting hope perhaps, but it gladdens me that they still see you as their brother._

_I hope to hear from you soon, my dear. And perhaps it may not mean much to you, but I simply wish to say: I am so proud of what you are doing - what you have done - for others._

_You will always have a home with us, my light._

_With all my love,_

_~Mondatta_

Zenyatta lowered the first letter, fingers trembling and weak, unable to fully grasp the papers between them. Core temperature just touching on the red, his vents huffed clouds of steam as he worked to process what he had just read. 

It was the first of a long, long stream of letters, yet the expertly scrawled characters spoke of so much. He could clearly hear his brother’s voice as he read the letter; soft and patient, putting the silver bells of the monastery to absolute shame with his gentle tenor. 

When had he last heard his voice? When had he last heard it in person and not just over the speakers of a computer or television? 

_‘The day before I left…’_ his processors supplied unhelpfully. 

His back hit the wall by his bed with a soft thud, head hanging heavily and shoulders trembling. His optics scanned over the letter, fingers shakily caressing the curved lines and letters. If he focused hard enough, perhaps his olfactory sensors could pick up the faint traces of the incense Mondatta was so fond of. 

A high-pitched warble - the closest to a sob an Omnic could come to - left Zenyatta’s synth. Uncaring of the possible damage, he pressed the letter to his core, knees drawing up to curl around it like an oyster around a precious pearl. 

There was so much he wanted to say, to _respond_ with and yet…

Zenyatta choked off another sob, array lights flickering. His head turned to regard his desk, taking in its contents. A few neatly arranged stacks of stationary paper, some stickers some children had given him during their last trip. A silly novelty mug with the words, “I am a strong, independent Omnic” printed on it held his numerous pens, pencils and a small cherry blossom branch he picked up during a mission to Japan. The most recent pen Lena bought him sat in its case next to a small, potted succulent perched on the low hutch, sternly guarded by an old wooden nutcracker that had joined the meager possessions he had taken with him when he and Genji left the Shambali. 

He was moving before he could even register the shift in his balance software. Ignoring the slight pain of knocking his “toes” into his chair as he yanked it out, he sat down and hurriedly pulled out the familiar items he desired. 

He did not know why he felt he needed to reply - it was long past too late to reply to Mondatta’s letter, but he couldn’t leave things like this…!

_My dear Brother,_

_It is so good to hear from you! Please, do not apologize for the lack of contact. I completely understand. I seem to have had the same issue when it came to keeping in touch. Genji and I never stayed in one place long enough to entertain the idea of sending a letter, nor did we have any form of address for you to reply to._

_Yes, Genji and I have indeed joined Overwatch! I...must admit, I did in fact expect a slight scolding. But to hear you say you approve in spite of our differences...I cannot truly express how happy I am. But I am also sad-_

Zenyatta furiously scribbled out the last sentence. 

_You still call me “my light”. I wonder how long that will last. I wonder if you will stop after another two or three-_

More scribbling. 

_You know you can always talk to me about these things, brother. Especially about those on your security team. I swear those people have less personality than a vacuum. I know you secretly agree, don’t deny it. You shouldn’t have to be locked up in the monastery like some songbird, you should be allowed to le-_

He paused, staring at the words he had written. A sound he could not entirely identify left his synth, his shoulders dropping and chin resting over one arm over his desk. His free hand continued writing. 

_Genji and I are doing fine. We have met so many people and gone to so many places, it would take me years to describe everything to you. But I can hardly complain. I want to tell you everything: about the people we have met, the places we have seen, the encounters and adventures we have had…_

_Brother, I wish I could have shown it all to you. I wish you could see things now, the places and people ~~I~~ ~~we~~ YOU have touched. I wish-_

A minute tremble left a stain of ink on the parchment. Zenyatta moved down a line.

_We were in Numbani when-_

Another line.

_I miss the monastery. It has been an adjustment to wake up with an internal alarm as opposed to the tower bells. I miss the courtyard where we could see the land for miles. I miss the snow; the shy blooms of flowers in early spring. I miss the village children we would teach; the old, cranky farmer we would barter wool from. I miss the sky there. I miss ~~our~~ ~~my~~ ~~YOUR~~ our brothers and sister. I miss that snow leopard that would break into our kitchens and scare visitors. I miss you-_

A sob shook Zenyatta’s hand, distorting letters and sentences. His core temperature was still rising, and he would be forced into a shutdown soon to cool off. 

_I miss you. I’m sorry._

_Your words mean more to me than you could ever ima-_

_I’m sorry ~~if I~~ that I disappointed you._

_~~I still want to be your light.~~ _

~~__~~ _Don’t make me read the others. I’m not strong enough. ~~I’m sorry.~~_

~~__~~ _I’m sorry._

_I miss you._

_~Zen-_

Anguish overtook the Omnic before he could finish signing his name. His back lurched, faceplates burying itself into his folded arms as he cried, pen left forgotten and to roll off the desk and onto the floor as shutdown crashed over him. 

To be continued(?)


	3. Marigolds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEEEEEEEE so I got a wonderful review from a particular reader (you know who you are) and I just weirdly got pumped to write more ANGST for this story. It's kind of a shortish chapter and I'm nit 100% happy with it, but I think it does its job. 
> 
> I have quite a few chapter ideas in my inventory to expand upon regarding the letters between Zenyatta and Mondatta, and even the ending itself planned out. 
> 
> Now before anyone asks, **yes, Mondatta is dead and Zenyatta knows there is no way for Mondatta to actually see these late replies he is writing. That's the point.** There will be some actual in-story explaining down the line regarding these replies he is writing, so for now, just enjoy the angst!
> 
> Give shoutout and all my love goes out to [Lacertae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae) for their amazing comments! 
> 
> ~Sumi

_My dear Zenyatta,_

_The monastery has become so quiet without your presence. It has been exactly five months since you left, and yet it feels like the very life you breathed into the walls has not returned, seemingly having gone with you. It is...strange. We generally welcome silence, but this silence is not one I take comfort in. It is a silence reminiscent of emptiness, of something cherished now missing._

_Your brothers and sisters miss you greatly, as do I. Even Toofan misses you! He keeps finding ways out of the goat pen to bleat and knock his head on the wall under your window. He is doing as much now, and giving me a rather suspicious look. Perhaps he thinks you are in my room? He doesn’t dislike you nearly as much as you believe, my dear. He-_

_Apologies, I had to stop for a moment, as Toofan had gotten a hold of your curtains and proceeded to try and eat them. He is rather confused as to why you are not coming out to scold him for ruining the curtains you had painstakingly mended. He is back in his pen now, but I have little doubt he will break out again to possibly break into your room again. Fear not, I’ve put away anything he could damage in your storage chest. We do not want a repeat incident of that time he got ahold of that T-shirt you love so much. Hehe, silly goat._

_I...must confess that I spent a little more time in your room than necessary. You were never one for material possessions, but you cherished the smallest, seemingly meaningless things; particularly things gifted to you. And you had to leave so many of them behind. It feels like you are still here. Your energy still lingers in your room, clinging to your bed, your clothes; perfuming the marigolds on your table._

_Goodness, I had completely forgotten that you had plants in your room. The poor things were on the verge of dying when I found them! They’ve started to perk up a bit with some sun and water, and I’m hopeful they will regain their health in a few weeks. I’ll be sure to keep an eye on them in your stead (yes, that means keeping Toofan from eating them)._

_A couple blooms had long since died and fallen from their stems, but this is hardly a tragedy. I had barely picked them out of the pot when their petal-bound seeds came tumbling out of the receptacle. They seem viable, and so I enclosed a handful in this letter. If you have the means, perhaps you can plant them!_

_I sadly must say goodbye now. If by chance you need something from your room, please let me know and I will see to it that it gets to you promptly._

_I hope to hear from you soon, my light._

_With all my love,_

_~Mondatta_

Zenyatta’s array was dim, shoulders slumped and head bowed. _Wilted_ was the word that came to mind. His intakes were strained, seemingly trying not to disturb the sibilant silence of his quarters.

He peered up from the letter and took in the room given to him by Overwatch. Sitting on the floor and slumped against his desk allowed him a decent view of the room in its entirety; or what little there was to see. 

All of the rooms for the agents were minimalistic and small; meant as a place to rest, and not truly as a place to live. Stark white walls, a single window, grey floors, and recessed lights in the ceiling - now currently off. The few pieces of furniture were just as sterile and standard as the rest of the room. 

The dull monochrome was briefly overwhelmed by the dim burn of the oncoming dusk, tinging the whites and greys with orange, red, and yellow. The few knick knacks and keepsakes he took with him or collected over the years provided the only touches of color and personality. It was clear someone lived here. Someone who liked to read, who liked to tend to little plants, collected silly toys and trinkets; who did not seem to have a favorite color, but rather a shifting preference. And yet…

_“It feels like you are still here. Your energy still lingers in your room, clinging to your bed, your clothes…”_

Did he leave that at the monastery too? That _presence?_ That sense of life that makes a room more than just a room? 

He remembered his room back at the monastery. Or at least...he thought he did. It’s been so long, what did he even leave behind? Did he ever think he forgot something? Were his plants still there? Did Toofan eat any more of his shirts or books?

Did...did he even _have_ a room - a home - back at the monastery anymore? Was it even his room anymore? Or had a new trainee come and moved into it? Without Mondatta there, were any of his things still there, untouched and guarded…?

He laid the papers in his lap and picked up the envelope carefully propped up against his chair leg. Carefully puckering the envelope open, he peered inside. 

Tiny flecks of black and faded orange rested in the bottom crease of the envelope. The little black shards - seeds - were all mostly intact, some still even attached to the brittle remains of withered orange petals. Trapped for years and hidden from sight, sun, water, and soil. Were they even viable anymore? 

An ache bloomed in his core, optics blurring with coolant. He regarded the seeds and letter both. His room that was not _his room_. The sunset colors masking the sterile white and grey he so wished could be replaced by the weather-stained walls of the monastery; the single square window he wished would suddenly soften its edges and be accompanied by two more…

He laid the letter pages on the floor at his side, the envelope of seeds on top. He picked up a book that had fallen from his desk, as well as the paper and pen that had also taken a tumble after his crash. He laid the papers on top of the book cover and grabbed his pen. 

He began to write. 

_My dear Brother,_

_It is so good to hear from you again! I apologize that I haven’t written to you sooner. Things have been...busy._

_I am ~~surprised~~ happy to hear that the others seem to miss me. I miss them as well. I miss you greatly. _

_Oh, by the Iris, Toofan… Don’t be cute, Brother, we all know that goat has had it in for me the moment he crawled out of whatever hell-bound crevice he was birthed from. I retain my claim to this day: That glorified doorstop was trying to kill me when he rammed into - and dented - my backside while I was just close enough to the cliffs! You should have seen the look he gave me! And he dared to pretend to be nibbling on some weeds, completely innocent, when you asked me what happened and why I was clinging to the wall for dear life._

Zenyatta paused to chuckle mildly. Toofan was an old, stubborn, _evil_ goat. His mother had supposedly rejected him at birth - _gee, wonder why_ \- and the farmer who owned him had given him to the monastery. Toofan took an instant liking to Mondatta; perhaps because they looked alike. His white armor and pale robes certainly matched Toofan’s own snowy coat. Mondatta had fed and nursed him to health until he was able to survive on his own, and in return, Toofan seemed to swear his absolute loyalty to the monk. An adorable hellion as a kid; evil incarnate when he grew in size and gained full horns. And he’s had it in for Zenyatta since day one. 

It was cute at first, finding the little kid trying to tear his clothes or headbutting his leg. It became less cute as he got bigger and stronger. Then it became outright war when the smug brat tried to defenestrate him from a cliff. 

No one ever believed him when he told them the goat was evil and wanted him turned into a toaster. Toofan was perfectly friendly and sweet to the other monks and visitors, and was practically Mondatta’s bodyguard when at home. Perfectly well-behaved, great with kids, great with other animals; just a silly goat with a penchant for eating anything Zenyatta so much as glanced at...

_He does it on purpose you know. Acting all innocent and cute, following you around like some horned puppy. Oh, I was FURIOUS when I caught him with that shirt; you know how much I love that shirt!_

_...I know I acted all huffy when you brought it back from one of your trips for me, but I do love it. “I saw it and immediately thought of you!” you said. I hadn’t known any better; touched and happy you had thought of me. Lo and behold, I was rather stunned when you revealed a lime-green T-shirt with a tiny green dragon printed on it with the words, “Dragon Rider” surrounding it. You didn’t stop laughing at me for fifteen minutes._

_I didn’t take it with me. I left it in my closet after Toofan ate most of its bottom half, but I didn't have the heart to throw it out._

Toofan’s attack on it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t much of a T-shirt afterwards, but some scissors had helped to alter it into a comfortable crop-top.

He hadn’t seen or worn it since he left. It may have been more or less a gag-gift from Mondatta - probably the closest to a prank he would ever get - but Zenyatta had appreciated it regardless. Poor Genji refused to look at it, blushing and stuttering for reasons that had taken _far_ too long to figure out. 

His fingers tightened on his pen. 

_Thank you for taking care of ~~my room~~ my things. Truly, Brother, you are more than welcome to look at anything in there or borrow whatever you need or like, or simply stay there if you need a few moments to yourself. And thank you for taking care of my marigolds. I honestly had forgotten about them too. I should have told you-_

A sound reminescent of one being choked escaped Zenyatta’s synth, a rush of hot-cold climbing up his spine. His hands shook, and he quickly scribbled out the unfinished sentence. 

_I know they are in capable hands. You have always loved gardening and tending to plants. Had things been different, I am sure you would have gone into a job or career with plants. I can easily imagine you owning a flower shop or nursery. Truly, it amazes me sometimes how humans can believe Omnics have no life in them, and thus are not capable of cultivating life. You have a natural green thumb, Brother, and I wish people could have seen it..._

_I remember when I first got those marigolds. Naga had ordered some new seeds and sproutlings for the Shambali garden, and somehow a couple of marigold sprouts had gotten into the order. They wouldn’t do well in such cold weather and high altitude, and he gave them to me. You helped me figure out what they needed to survive and thrive, how much water they needed, how big of a pot they would need; trimming, repotting, harvesting seeds._

_~~I wonder if they are still alive. If someone else is looking after them now. Or are these seeds their final remains?~~ _

_I don’t think there is anything I want from my room. ~~If it is still my room anymore.~~ I am having trouble even recalling what I owned, what I wanted to take with me but couldn’t. _

_I can’t remember what I left behind. I am trying to remember, but all I can see is your face and marigolds and that stupid goat and a green shirt and bullets and-_

The pen tumbled from his lap as Zenyatta’s hands slammed onto the floor, fingers curling with clawing sounds against the thin carpet. His body trembled, optics closing. The dim glow of dusk was bleeding away; a colorful party mask put away after a dazzling masquerade, revealing the dreary white and grey and _empty_ underneath. 

His intakes stuttered, forcing his optics open. The bright white of the paper was illuminated by his array light, the black ink glaring and abyssal. Sterile, standard; a wash of grey and white, hidden by a mask of sorrowful blue. 

He picked up his pen again. His hands trembled. 

_I promise to write to you more. I promise I will remember eventually._

_~~I owe it to you after I-~~ _

~~__~~ _I want to plant these seeds and send you pictures of their first little sprouts._

_I want to see that stupid goat again._

_I want to see you again and plant these seeds with you._

_I want my shirt back._

_I miss you._

_~ Zenyatta_

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fun Fact:** As a kid, my aunt got a little white goat she named Hank, and he was the absolute sweetest and cutest goat on the face of this planet. I played with that goat for hours on end in the sweltering and sticky Alabama heat and helped him to get the tastiest foliage and leaves if he couldn't reach them. He would fricken CRY whenever I had to leave him in his enclosure. As we were only visiting though, we sadly had to leave for our home (not in Alabama), and I sadly had to say goodbye to Hank.  
> Ten years later, we came to visit again, and Hank got BIG. He wasn't a silly little kid anymore, and in fact had his own kids with the other goat ladies my aunt and uncle got. Here's the kicker though: he hated everyone. He tackled and kicked and attacked my uncle when he tried to feed him and the other goats, and he wasn't a small goat. This was the goat you see in cartoons that can punt full grown men down field. I was told he could probably attack me if I went to see him, but lo and behold, he pranced on over and let me pet, scratch, and feed him. Didn't even give me a hint to his newfound testosterone, only urged his ladies to follow me around with him so I could bend tree branches down for them to nibble on. Suffice to say, my aunt and uncle were floored. 
> 
> Sadly a year or two after we left again, my aunt had to sell Hank since he was attacking the neighbor's pigmy goats. I miss that damn goat. He was so fricken cool, and weirdly the only barn animal I have had no allergic reactions to for some reason. Yet horses make me break into hives. Go figure. 
> 
> Enjoy and leave a comment! And if you have any suggestions for ideas for this fic and what the bot-bros can write about, let me know!
> 
> ~Sumi


	4. A Quick and Painless Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Zenyatta dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for details of Zenyatta's dream/flashback~
> 
> Enjoy and feedback is always welcome!
> 
> ~S~

If there was one thing they knew about Mondatta, it was that he was strange.

They thought as much now, watching the pale Omnic flit about, heels lifted from the ground and a soft tune humming under the tinny cadence of his vocoder. The skirts of his kasaya swirled about his ankles as he literally twirled about the plants and flowers of the garden, watering can in hand and a pair of clippers tucked into the knot of his kasaya sleeves tied about his hips.

Their optics narrowed, head cocking to one side. The entryway leading into the garden was dark; dark enough to hide their form, with the exception of their nine-point array and other biolights. 

Mondatta seemed oblivious to the Omnic watching him - or perhaps he knew they were there and simply chose to ignore them. They wouldn’t put it past the damn monk if this were the case. 

Pacifistic peacemonger he may be, but they had long since learned that Mondatta was _tricky._ He could play the peacekeeper and benevolent leader all he liked, but they knew better. Very few would see him as anything else, and that made Mondatta _dangerous._

 _‘You baffle me,’_ they thought, _‘What sort of corruption have you experienced to make you into such a strange machine?’_

Servos stiffened when Mondatta paused in the middle of the garden, seemingly surveying his work. The majority of the plants had been watered, others trimmed. A small pile of clipped flowers were neatly arranged off to the side on a bench, likely to either be placed in a vase or hung up to dry for whatever reason. They could not understand why Mondatta had this odd fascination with plants. What was even the point? Why bother even displaying them when they would die overnight? Why waste so much time tending to them when they provided no use to himself and the other monks? 

Why was he so _strange?_

“Will you burn in the sun if you step out of the darkness, my dear?”

They would never admit to being startled by the gentle, teasing voice. They could not stop their array from flickering in surprise though, their hand tightening around the edge of the pillar. 

Mondatta was looking at them now, placing one hand on his hip while the other held the half-empty watering can at his side. 

“There is no need to sneak,” he chortled, as if trying to soothe a particularly shy child, “Come out, I do not bite.”

Their array dimmed. “Why would I be concerned about being bitten?”

Mondatta’s array flickered; not unlike a confused human blink. He chuckled, the hand at his hip moving to cover his vocoder. 

“It is a figure of speech,” he explained, “It means I have no intent to harm you.”

“It is not as if you could…” They stepped out from behind the pillar regardless, and with cautious steps, shuffled out into the garden. They stood before Mondatta with an arm’s length separating them both, yet they still seemed to tower over the slender Omnic. The dark Omnic’s very shadow seemed to overpower him, making his icy blue array glow all the brighter. A stark contrast to their ominously red array. 

There was an amused pulse over Mondatta’s field, tinged with something...not bleak, not dark. It felt _smug._

“I could go on and recall our initial first meeting,” he began coyly, “But I feel you would take offence to such a thing.”

“I am a machine,” they said as tonelessly as they could manage, “I do not take offence to such illogical things.”

Mondatta hummed. “Perhaps. If not offence, then perhaps your pride would be wounded.”

He suddenly turned and made his way to a flowerbed he had yet to water. He knelt on the ground before the young sprouts and buds and patted the grass beside him.

“Come here,” he said, “I would like to show you something.”

Optics narrowed behind the long and angular faceplates. A nameless sensation flared up in their core, and they ran a diagnostic on the anomaly. Everything came back perfectly normal and functioning at capacity, with no signs of glitches, viruses, or corruption. 

Part of them wanted to defy Mondatta, to turn tail and just leave, or perhaps challenge the smaller Omnic. 

But that would only prove Mondatta right. It would prove them wrong. It would show them that they did, indeed, have pride, and thus were not as much a machine as they wanted to believe. 

Such a strange, _deceptive_ Omnic.

They lumbered over and knelt beside Mondatta, keeping about a foot of space between them. They canted their head to regard the flowers, a few of the thick, dreadlock-like cords sprouting from their head coming loose to dangle in their peripheral. The flowers were mostly still buds, their colors not yet mature. There were a few full blooms, just at the peak of their prime. They could not tell what they were supposed to be, but they were surrounded by blade-like leaves, the buds corkscrewing from the ground on thick stalks. 

“Do you know what these are?” Mondatta asked, placing the watering can on his other side and his hands folded neatly in his lap. 

The darker Omnic shook their head.

Mondatta’s tone suggested a smile. “Iris clarkei, a subgenus of Limniris. A hardy and beautiful perennial, native to areas of South and Central Asia, including Nepal.” The Omnic beside Mondatta peered over at him from the corner of optical slits. “Why is this relevant?”

“Perhaps I just like to ramble off random facts about flowers,” Mondatta said with a shrug. At the blank stare he received in response, he laughed and waved a hand dismissively. “Apologies, I’m merely teasing you!”

A mind throbbing was beginning to resonate in their head, confusion and bewilderment at Mondatta turning into a dull processor ache. _Fantastic._ They had wanted to simply brood and observe in peace without Mondatta making them feel - _no, not feel, they CANNOT FEEL_ \- so confused and just so... _strange._

Mondatta suddenly edged closer to them and removed the clippers from his kasaya. He held them out to the dark Omnic beside him. 

They stared at the shears, and a part of them wondered just how foolish Mondatta had to be to essentially give them a weapon. Was he truly so confident - or perhaps arrogant - as to believe he could prevent them from slitting the main fuel line in his throat with his own gardening shears? Mondatta may have defeated them in their first meeting, but that did not mean they were incapable of putting up a fight and _winning_. 

And yet...they were _curious._

Slowly, they reached up and took the shears, holding them in a loose and uncertain grip. Mondatta gestured to the irises.

“There are a few here that need to be cut.” He pointed out the young blooms that were not quite buds anymore, but not quite fully bloomed. “I would like you to cut these ones.”

“...why?” 

“Why not?”

The mild throb in their processors suddenly became a much more persisting ache. Irritation prickled along their lines as a thousand and one answers and arguments came to mind. Because what is the point? Why doesn’t he cut them himself? Why ask them to do it? Why cut them at all? Why not leave them alone to seethe and lament their losses without being pestered by this _infuriating-!_

The clippers creaked as their hand tightened around it, and with only a glance at the flowers, brought the open blades to the very neck of an iris. 

Their wrist was snatched before they could squeeze the shears and cut the flower.

“Ah, not there,” Mondatta chastised gently, “That is far too close to the spathe, you will decapitate the poor thing.” 

A low growl escaped his companion’s vocoder. “That _hardly_ makes a difference. It is being cut regardless.”

“Indeed, but believe it or not, there is a significant difference,” Mondatta intoned. His grip was gentle, but his movement firm as he urged their hand lower until the shear blades were more towards the bottom of the stem, perhaps three or four inches from the base of the highest leaf of the stem. A second hand came up to guide their hand to turn so the stem could be cut at an angle. 

“Cut here. The flower will have a better chance in sealing the cut tissue or growing a new flower. You also reduce the chances of shock and rot, and preserve the bounty of the cut flower. If you had cut it so high, it would wilt and die a lot sooner.” 

“It will still die,” the dark Omnic said.

“Indeed, but that is not the point,” Mondatta said, “The point of this exercise is _preservation_ and _consideration_ of another living thing.”

“I am not living,” they said, pulling their hand from Mondatta’s hold, the shears still clutched in their palm. “Neither are flowers.”

“What makes you say that?” Mondatta asked with a cocked head. 

“They are only living in the sense that they have the means to survive and then die,” they elaborated, “They do not think, do not process, do not _live_ in ways humans do.”

Mondatta’s low chuckle caught them off guard. “You equate being alive with being human? How fascinating.”

If they didn’t know any better, they would believe Mondatta was being condescending. Another wave of that unnamable sensation came over them. 

“I equate being alive with _living things_ ,” they said with conviction, and no small amount of irritation. 

“And to you, these flowers are not alive?” Mondatta asked. 

“No. They are living in the sense that they have a function, and that is to feed other living entities.”

“The same can be said for humans,” Mondatta said, “Long ago, man was once little more than a functional means to an end. Prey, vessels for disease and other organisms, fertilizer for the ground once the life has left them…”

“That is not the same. Plants are not people.”

“Indeed, they are not. They are plants, but they are as alive as humans are.” Mondatta turned to look up at his companion. “They reproduce, they grow, they live, they die, and then the cycle repeats. They need water, food, and light to live. Perhaps flowers cannot feel pain or emotions like a human can...or perhaps they can, and they are growing progressively more terrified as we speak of cutting them right now.”

The larger Omnic turned to face Mondatta, their field a confused and baffled tangle of disbelief. Mondatta’s amusement only deepened. 

“Flowers are not human. Humans are not flowers, nor are flowers, humans, animals, or Omnics related to one another in such black and white context,” he said softly, reaching out a single hand to lay over the first held tight around the shears. “They are alive in _their own right_. “Human” is no more synonymous with “Alive” as “Flower” is to “Human”.”

He guided the shears back to the flower stem, taking them back to the same spot in the same angled position for a proper cut. The holder of the shears did not fight him.

“Quick and painless - or so I hope.”

A simple twitch of stiff fingers, dazed and processors swimming, infected with curiosity and _emotions_ , all instigated by this _strange_ Omnic. The iris was cut and toppled from its once upright position.

 _Quick and painless._

So unlike cutting the first weeds of doubt...

* * *

Zenyatta’s array blinked wearily, his head lifting lethargically. His optics took far longer to adjust and recalibrate than was usual, likely as a result of the darkness around him. His optics refreshed and focused, until he was finally able to recognize the fuzzy edges of his quarters. The warm light of dusk had long since fled, and was replaced with the hazy drape of dim night to cover his room. 

His processors throbbed, a pained warble escaping his vocoder.

“By the Iris…” he groaned, his hands covering his optical slits. 

Omnics were not strangers to dreams, and Zenyatta was no exception. It was somewhat rare that he dreamed, but when he did, he often recalled them with vivid clarity. And more often than not, he simply dreamed of memories and events he had already experienced, seen, and touched. 

He hadn’t dreamed in months, not truly. His sleep was often dark and quiet, a simple drone of recharge and rest. Prior to that, he had been plagued by nightmares. Nightmares he had never once told Genji about; he had told no one of them. There were advantages to be had when your face is incapable of conveying emotion, let alone sleep deprivation and lethargy. 

The nightmares had stopped, and every other dream was faint and fleeting; just a recap of a moment that happened a few days to a week prior. 

This would be the first time he had dreamed of Mondatta since his nightmares almost two years ago. And perhaps the first time overall that he dreamed of the day Mondatta had him cut irises during his first week among the Shambali. He had actually dreamt of the Omnic he used to be before-

A shudder wracked his frame, his hands sliding down his face and into his lap. He stared dazedly into the darkness of his room. 

_‘It has been so long…’_ he thought, _‘I had almost forgotten how different I looked all those years ago. I haven’t even thought of the Omnic I used to be since I recieved my name.’_

How long has it been? Seven, eight years? A whole lifetime before and after Zenyatta, all hyper compressed into less than a decade.

He had forgotten so easily. He had forgotten everything that had led up to him even meeting Mondatta, and everything regarding the Omnic he no longer wished to be. 

He was suddenly overcome with a pained sense of nostalgia, of melancholic remembrance. 

When he had first met Mondatta, the circumstances had been less than kind. 

He had known of Mondatta, but he hadn’t known him at the time. He had in fact actively opposed him and his ideals at the time. Still, there was something about Mondatta he was fascinated by. Through the screens of televisions or over audio broadcasts, he had always found it difficult to not look at or listen to Mondatta. There had always been something about Mondatta that he had found strange. Mondatta overall was _strange_ to him, and he would remain _strange_ to him for a long time to come. 

He had brought him to the monastery with little hesitation after they met, smuggled right under the noses of the very people he now worked with. Him, the very Omnic who could have easily ended his and many other peoples’ lives. Yet after almost a month of gently, quietly luring him closer, urging him to listen longer, Zenyatta found himself ensnared. 

Mondatta was cunning like this. He did not need to threaten, beg, or persuade with means most would utilize in dire situations. No, he merely had to speak. And in Zenyatta’s case, make him question his very existence. 

He didn’t suffer an existential crisis; he didn’t need to. Mondatta only had to make him _curious._

Mondatta, by these means, was _seductive._ He wove words into a thin, gauzy fabric he would drape over the unknowns of life itself, and he would step behind the curtain and whisper tantalizing descriptions of what lay beyond. Omnics and humans alike broke under his coy whispers, scrambling towards the pale, beckoning hand behind the sheer curtains; thin enough to make one guess, but obscured enough to make one question. 

He had done the very same to Zenyatta when they met, and it had probably been Mondatta’s crowning achievement of his conviction. Held hostage, working with and around and against humans and Omnics, and he still won. And Zenyatta - then nameless, driven by anger and righteous fury at humanity - had been standing on the other side of the bars with the keys and the power, but he still lost. 

He could not say what it was about the pale Omnic that had made Zenyatta so curious. But it was clear that, despite his resistance of twenty-eight days, Zenyatta had fallen into Mondatta’s trap. 

He had made Zenyatta question. He had made Zenyatta curious. He had made him wonder about the shapes, shadows, voices, and the enigmatic Omnic guarding the curtains hiding it all. Perhaps he felt he had no choice. Twenty-eight days was plenty of time for help to arrive and nullify him and his cohorts. It was best to quietly slink away at this point; to allow himself to be stolen away behind the curtain. 

It had been surprisingly easy. _Concerningly easy._ He wouldn’t realize what sort of power Mondatta held over people until much later, and how it had helped pave the way to becoming who he is today. 

It had been difficult. _He_ had been difficult. Even now, Zenyatta could not understand just how Mondatta put up with him as he stumbled, crawled, and was dragged kicking and screaming down the path to his life. How Mondatta met wrath and threat with gentle words and reassurance; how he held still and calm when he had a hand around the slim column of his neck; how he offered a kind touch when a blade was pressed to a vital line; and finally simple, devastating words when his feet were off the ground and his body was held over the very precipice of the mountain he lived on.

Zenyatta chuckled ruefully, his head leaning back and hitting the leg of his desk with a dull _thunk._

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen…” he sighed.

His optics fluttered, internal warnings alerting him of low power and the high priority recommendation to hook up to his recharge station. He almost wanted to ignore the warnings, to suffer the fragmenting lethargy and painful sense of emptiness for the rest of the night. 

His musings were dashed however by a low knocking at his door. He only had enough time to turn his head as his door slid open and Genji poked his head in.

“Master?” the ninja called worriedly.

Zenyatta’s core tightened, array dim. “I’m here, sparrow.”

Genji’s eyes quickly found him by his desk, his lips tight and eyes searching. He slipped into the room and closed the door behind himself, shuffling towards Zenyatta. His knees bent to kneel in front of him. 

“Are...are you alright?” he asked in open concern. 

Zenyatta’s array flickered thoughtfully. 

“I’m fine, my student,” he warbled, his voice slightly slurred with exhaustion. “I...I am sorry, I must have fallen into sleep mode without realizing.”

Genji’s shoulders relaxed, but only marginally. He was clearly still on guard and worried. He unfolded from his kneel and into a cross-legged position in front of his master. 

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” Zenyatta reassured tiredly. He reached up to scrub his hands over his face. It did nothing to truly relieve the processor ache and sickly lethargy, but it was cathartic. His intakes coughed softly, strained from crying for who knows how long.

“How long have I been in sleep mode?” he asked.

Genji’s eyes became distant as he checked his internal chronometer. “I am not sure. It is nearly 10pm now.”

Zenyatta checked his own chronometer, as well as the time stamps on his latest memories. He couldn’t pinpoint when exactly he fell unconscious, but it had been dusk at the time, his quarters still partially lit. He had likely been out for two to three hours. 

His optics peered down at the two open letters on his floor. The envelope holding the most recently read letter was overturned, the marigold seeds having spilled out from being jostled. There were two haphazardly folded pieces of paper on the floor as well; the replies he had made and that would never be read…

His optics found the box of letters and items by his bed and recharge station. The sight made his tanks churn. By the Iris, there were so many, and he was already wrecked and gutted by two.

“Zenyatta?” Genji called softly.

Zenyatta tore his optics from the box to face Genji. “Apologies, I am...I am tired.”

Genji searched Zenyatta’s faceplates. “Are you alright?” he repeated.

The chrome Omnic seemed to consider the question. His automatic response was to say yes, to assure Genji that he was in fact fine, and that little else needed to be said. 

But he was not alright. He was more than tired, more than hurt. He was gutted and wrecked, and there was so much more hurt to be had; all neatly bound between the folds of pristine envelopes. As if the letters weren’t enough, but now he was dreaming of his brother, and he wasn’t entirely sure if the memory fluxes could be called dreams or nightmares. 

He didn’t feel alright. He felt tired and wounded. He felt lost. He felt like the fledgling monk he used to be who could not bear to be more than a room away from Mondatta if he could help it. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted uncertainly, his arms coming up to hug himself. 

Genji’s gaze was pained, utterly helpless as to how he could help and comfort his master. His eyes skirted to the box of letters, his fingers curling into fists. He wanted to tell Zenyatta to stop reading the letters. He wanted to tell him it was not worth it, that it was not going to make a difference; that Mondatta would not have wanted him to break his heart over a few dozen pieces of paper left by a ghost. 

But he could not say such things. He knew Zenyatta would not listen for one, and for another, it was not his place. But if things got any worse for his master emotionally, if it got to a point where he had to truly be worried… He tried not to think about it.

He reached out and placed a hand on Zenyatta’s knee, catching the Omnic’s attention.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

Zenyatta’s vocoder whined softly, his hands coming down to wrap around Genji’s palm. His hands were trembling fainty, his grip so weak and featherlight. As if he had no strength to even hold himself grounded to another. And perhaps he couldn’t. 

“I do not know what to say,” he said, “I do not know if anything _can_ help. I feel...I feel gutted. I feel tired. And I cannot think of any possible way to help it.”

Zenyatta stared at his lap, exhausted, confused, and so very empty. Yet the very cavity in his chest, cleaved open and mined of his very emotions by a few pieces of paper marked with ink, was filled with a suffocating emptiness. There was a thick, purple smoke trying to fill the space, to smother and poison his very lines and circuits, to reunite with his soul after being extracted from it for so long.

Genji’s grip tightened, then loosened. 

“Master,” he started as steadily as he could manage; trying to sound like someone Zenyatta could lean on, rather than the scared and uncertain fledgling he felt like. “Can...can I hug you?”

Zenyatta peered up at Genji, confusion, surprise, and a spark of _life_ briefly lighting his array. Fractures sprouted from somewhere inside of him, his core quivering and intakes hot and tight.

“Yes.” He did not even recognize his own voice, strangled and broken as the single word was. 

Genji did not even hesitate though, unfolding from his seated position to envelope Zenyatta in his arms. 

The sensation was familiar. Zenyatta loved being touched so warmly and affectionately. It was so rare that he had to be comforted in such capacity, as it was usually him offering said comfort. The only time he was on the receiving end of such touches were when Mondatta was around to give it, when Zenyatta _allowed_ himself to desire comfort. 

It wasn’t the same, and he could not decide whether he cried for the fact Mondatta would never hug him again, or the fact that he could feel a gaping hole in his heart and nothing more. 

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently it has been confirmed that we'll soon be getting the much anticipated lore for Zenyatta. Theories and discussions have been abound, but I have managed to keep out of them entirely for the sake of my own theory. I doubt I am the only one to theorize that the mystery Omnic from Storm Rising - lovingly nicknamed Null Hector by the fandom - is Zenyatta from become he was Zenyatta. There are some subtle implications: from Doomfist remarking how he "Fights for his kind", a juxtapose for Mondatta's more pacifistic route to proving Omnics equal to humans. We also have the Omnic's array: it consists of nine points, just like Zenyatta's (note that the two lights in their "dreadlocks" above the temples are not counted, and to me, seem more like biolights rather than array lights). The theory of Zenyatta being from Null Sector is a popular one too, and would probably make the most sense in terms of keeping the overall Overwatch plot focused in a linear and tight-knit timeline. 
> 
> That said, I like to make call-outs for these kind of things, so here you go. One pile of theory call-out with extra angst on the side. I'm likely to keep the theory even if it's not true, and we will get to see more intermissions with Zenyatta as for his former self! 
> 
> Intermissions like this will be posted sporadically between letter-reading chapters! I have about two more planned in headspace, in which case the end of the fic will be close, or I will be coming up with more intermission ideas. 
> 
> Again, if anyone has ideas for letters or even intermission flashbacks, let me know! 
> 
> ~S~


	5. Painful Reminder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter. It's short as hell and seems kind kind of off-topic for the plot, but I needed some filler before things start to...take a shift, shall I say. 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think! I'm sorry this took so long to get out. My fall semester started last week, and I'm taking a full class load to wrap things up. This is literally going to be my final semester for my Associates Degree if I pass my classes, so fingers crossed I do well!
> 
> Enjoy, and comments are always appreciated!
> 
> ~S~

_My dear Zenyatta,_

_How are you? I haven’t heard back from you yet regarding my previous letters. You are likely extremely busy, and the mail system is far from reliable. I’m trying to not allow myself to become impatient, ironically enough. It’s become quite an exercise, I must admit. It probably doesn’t help that your brothers and sisters ask me on a daily basis if I got a reply yet. They mean well, but they can be as fussy as my security team._

_We just got back from Numbani, and everyone seems to be riding a pleasant high. Morale is at a premium now, and it delights me to see our brothers and sisters in such high spirits. Many have even come to me asking if we could visit Numbani again in the near future; others have come to me to meekly ask about independent journeys to Numbani._

_I must admit, I am very relieved. It had never been my intention to instill such a thing, but our brothers and sisters have been having trouble leaving the comfort and isolation of the monastery. It has perhaps been two or three years since any one of our students have gone off on journeys and travels to their benefit and spiritual growth. I cannot blame them; many of our brothers and sisters came from less than ideal situations, and it is extremely difficult to leave a place you feel safe and secure in. But at some point, the monastery became a final stop for Omnics seeking solace._

_I haven’t exactly been encouraging our students to go out and explore the world. I think the only time they ever leave the monastery - Nepal in general - is when I ask for a handful of volunteers to accompany me on my trips. Even during those trips, they tend to stick close to me and in whatever residency we are staying in. I can’t recall a time a single monk tore themselves from my shadow to explore somewhere or something new…_

_I am hoping this sudden shift in morale will encourage more curiosity and courage in our brothers and sisters. I hope your departure will also become a topic of inspiration as well. You are becoming quite a celebrity, my light. I’ve caught many of them watching newsfeeds on Overwatch, particularly any news regarding yourself and Genji. I admit with only mild guilt to cutting meditation short to check up on any news on Overwatch._

_I apologize that this has become such a long letter. I have had a lot on my mind, and I suppose I just needed to vent a little bit. That is enough of my angst though. Are you doing well? How is Genji? I recently saw him and what I assume to be his infamous brother fighting alongside one another on the news last week. Have they reconciled? I certainly hope so. Genji deserves to have that much more love and support in his life._

_I hope you are doing well and that this letter reaches you. I may not be able to get another letter out for a few weeks, as I have been set to attend a charity gala (somewhat against my will) in Paris in a couple weeks. Please remember to take care of yourself, my light. And for Iris’, sake, if I find out you’re skipping fueling because you have “other priorities”, I’m shipping myself to you to flick that silly head of yours and drag you to the nearest fueling station._

_Wish me luck in the gilded lion’s den!_

_I hope to hear from you soon, my light._

_With all of my love,_

_~ Mondatta_

* * *

Zenyattahe leaned back into his desk chair, the letter held loosely in his hands on his lap. His array was slightly dim, having gotten the bare minimum of recharge the night prior. He had barely touched the canister of fuel Genji brought him that morning, but he could not bring himself to take more than a few sips. Any more and his tanks would start acting up with nausea. 

His optics found the beginning paragraphs of the letter. A part of him buried deep in his core gave a mild pang.

He had always known the Shambali were a little...perhaps “hypocritical” was too strong of a word. He had always known his brothers and sisters were a little idle, prone to unconscious double standards that contrasted their goals and their lifestyles. He also knew Mondatta was, indeed, partly at fault for not discouraging their behavior. But he hadn’t truly been encouraging it either. Mondatta had become progressively busy as the years went by, with dozens upon dozens of people pulling him this way and that, to this and that event; this speech, that party, this meeting, that charity he could _not_ miss. Mondatta barely had time to teach his own students anymore, and he could not seem to win any arguments to make room for them with his management team. 

It had never truly occurred to Zenyatta just how stressed Mondatta must have been. Mondatta was the epitome of calm and self control, it was borderline obscene to put “Mondatta” and “stressed” into the same sentence. But after reading the letter…

Zenyatta picked up his pen and paper.

_My dear Brother,_

_I am so sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you! Things have indeed been very busy, but that is no excuse. Interestingly enough it is not the mail system at fault, ~~and I have to wonder if you ever found out.~~_

_I have completely forgotten to ask about the others in my previous letters! Heh, can you blame them for being so fussy? You’re all too easy to fuss over and ruffle. Does your array still flush white when you’re embarrassed, Brother?_

_I am only teasing you. I’m glad to hear everyone is doing so well, and that the trip to Numbani was such a positive experience! Genji and I are wanting to go back one day for a short vacation. It’s a bit difficult to find time though. I’m gladder still to hear the others are wanting to explore the world._

_I hope those who left did so on better terms and you and I-_

_‘No,’_ Zenyatta scolded himself, scratching out the last sentence. 

_You know I do not blame you for how the Shambali are, don’t you? It was never entirely your fault. I never should have implied, led alone said otherwise. I never should have-_

_It’s hard to leave a safe haven, to even consider trading safety and comfort for a random chance journey into the unknown. It’s hard to let go of the one good thing someone has received in perhaps their whole life, and then be expected to let go of it. I...I confess that I had not been nearly empathetic enough for such thoughts up ~~until I left~~ ~~until you died~~ until recently._

_You have done so much, Brother. You have given life, love, and safety to so many people - Omnics and humans alike - and I haven’t shown that appreciation ~~at all~~ in so long. You have worked so hard to build and then keep the monastery and its inhabitants safe, going so far as to jump through hoops and deal with political leeches to help build a future where you don’t need to protect anyone…_

Zenyatta paused as he regarded the letter, optics scanning the line he was about to refer to. He read one sentence over and over again, his audial sensors buzzing. 

_“I hope your departure will also become a topic of inspiration as well,”_ the line read. The meager fuel in his tanks churned.

_I am...glad that I have provided this inspiration. At least I left something good behind. I think._

_Is it a good thing?_

_I don’t know anymore. I don’t think so._

_Do you have any idea how many times I’ve asked myself, “Why did I leave?” these past few years? How much remorse and self-loathing I have felt when-_

“Stop…” Zenyatta hissed to himself. He placed his pen on the desk, cradling his head between his palms. His intakes swelled with a deep intake, then released with a hazy puff of mild steam. His optics scanned passed the lines he had previously been reading. 

It was...extremely disconcerting to know Mondatta had been indirectly checking in on him during their years of separation and silence. The fact only served to triple the guilt growing inside him, curling in and around his very core like mold spores; a ball of pungent tar releasing more of that sickly purple smog into his lines. 

Mondatta had taken the time to make sure he and Genji were safe and sound. Knowing him, he probably took every opportunity to dig into articles, news, and perhaps cash in a few favors with those stuffed shirts he despised so much, just to make sure he and Genji were okay. And Zenyatta...he hadn’t even done a single Google search on the Shambali. He was too scared to, especially now that Mondatta was gone. 

He picked up his pen again, his head supported by one hand while he wrote with the other.

_Do not dare apologize for releasing your frustrations, Brother. I always want you to be able to come to me when you are feeling stressed or anxious. Whether it’s to rant, meditate, or simply sit in amicable silence; I want you to know you could ask these things of me and more._

_I hope you knew. Did I ever actually tell you? I can’t seem to recall if I ever told you to come to me when you need to talk…_

_I am...I could be better. I am going through my own stresses right now. It is difficult to explain ~~because you’re gone and it hurts~~. I am not nearly as verbally gifted as you are, so I will simply say that I am hurting. It will pass eventually though. Maybe. I hope. Or maybe not. ~~Maybe I deserve this.~~_

_Genji is doing very well! He is a bit worried about me due to my own...situation. But I’d rather he not worry. He and his brother, Hanzo, are working to mend their relationship. It has been a long, rocky road, but I cannot tell you how proud I am of how much progress they have both made. Genji has grown so, so much from when you last saw him! I think you and Hanzo would get along rather well in fact._

_I wish he could have met you. I...I wish we had the same blessing they received to rekindle their relationship. I am so ~~jealous~~ envious of the opportunity they have been given for themselves._

_What about you? Are you taking care of yourself? If you are getting progressively more stressed, perhaps you may need to consider an extended break. You know you tend to trigger more severe migraines when you push yourself too much! I don’t even want to think about the last time you had one such episode…_

A shudder wobbled and deformed the “e” at the end of “episode”, his core quivering. He could still remember that day. It hadn’t been a good day for either of them, and they both somehow got into one of their disagreements that turned heated on Zenyatta’s part. He wasn’t entirely sure what was said and how, but he knew something in his brother had given out. 

His array had flickered before going completely dim. His entire body had seized, vocoder choking on a gasped intake as his vents clamped shut, trapping heat and suffocating hardware. He had no sooner collapsed, spinal array spasming with misfiring relays as he was forced into an emergency shutdown to prevent permanent damage. 

Zenyatta could not recall a time he had been so scared and remorseful. Up until recently, that is. 

It had taken two days for Mondatta to wake up, and another three for him to recover. 

The episodes were, thankfully, very infrequent, but they were not so rare as to entirely disregard. No one was entirely sure what caused these supposed “migraines” in Omnics, though it was generally theorized to be linked to overheated and overworked processors and hardware in the cranium. Mondatta had to have a medical-grade cryo-solution made that needed to be injected directly into his cranial lines if he wanted to recover from an attack in under a week, and even that only helped so much. 

Omnics that were built to have little to no interactions with humans or whole groups tended to have a predisposition to these “migraines”, suggesting there was also a link to how powerful the AI was, and how an Omnic can process stresses of all types. 

Omnics in general were simply not meant to be put under severe stress in certain context. Kept busy and constantly moving, yes; but not a single Omnic was ever built to uphold a revolution, advocate political and social rights, teach and preach, train and console, organize and plan; analyze, argue, maintain cultural sensitivity, calculate every single word spoken before it is spoken; and all while maintaining a whole plethora of meins and personas depending on who he was forced to speak with.

Stars, it was a wonder Mondatta hadn’t literally blown a gasket yet…

_Please, Brother, PLEASE take care of yourself. I probably never said this enough in the past, but I’m begging you now: put yourself before others every now and again._

_I didn’t mean it when I said-_

_It was so stupid; I was so stupid and ignorant and angry and-_

_Please don’t go to Paris. Take a break. Please. Don’t hurt yourself to make others happy. Don’t listen to my idiocy. Please take care of yourself. Are you remembering to meet your coolant intake? You overheat so easily, and you just came back from a hot country, why are you even remotely worried about my health when you-_

_Please be alright. Please tell me these past few years are a nightmare._

_Please don’t go..._

Zenyatta didn’t even bother signing his name. He simply folded his response and placed it with the others alongside their corresponding letters. He blearily counted the number of replies and letters he had so far read - just over a dozen. 

Only a lifetime of mistakes to go. 

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I'm not entirely happy with the chapter, but like I said, some filler was necessary. I also low-key wanted to try and explore some of the implied pressures and stresses Mondatta would likely go through as a well-known figurehead.
> 
> I always find it both fascinating and a bit odd how people can portray him in fics as being prone to being "idle" or 110% pacifistic and passive even in words; going so far as to completely disapproving Zenyatta's beliefs and desires to defend others entirely based on combat being entirely bad. He's often portrayed as being completely uncompromising and 100% black and white in the lens. I never fully understood it because like...he literally probably doesn't possess a single uncompromising wire in his body? Do you have any idea how stressful being an activist is? How stressful being a PUBLIC SPEAKER is? Working in POLITICS is? How stressful it is being all these things and more WITHOUT compromise? Everyone and their mother have agreed with me that giving a simple five minute presentation in front of a class is one of the last things any of us want to do. Yet imagine that scenario, but your audience is the world behind cameras and in your direct vicinity in the hundreds. All watching, listening, staring; some waiting for you to inspire them, others waiting to catch you slipping up and exploiting it. And this is JUST for the public speaking aspect of Mondatta. I don't even want to think about the emotional and mental exhaustion one has to go through working in every other mentioned element of his life, especially the politics. 
> 
> This is also going on the assumption that these things come relatively natural to him. Brains and processors with AIs, I imagine, have different ways of coping with stress. For a mechanical entity, stress management is probably a little more clear-cut, but only if the entity actually knows how to decompress. A mechanical entity probably doesn't naturally know how to relax, especially if they're built and programmed first and foremost to keep chugging along 24/7. Adding in expectations and other passive to aggressive nuances to dance around, it only further confuses me when I read him portrayed as such a sterile, stiff and inflexible character. I'm only further confused by fics that seem to put him in a position of being borderline antagonized by Zenyatta due to their differing views, and thirsting for Genji for no other reason than to piss Mondatta off. It only shows just how much missed communication and genuine empathy for Mondatta's position there is;e's dealing with everything literally no one wants to deal with for the sake of others, and is antagonized for it "not being enough" by Zenyatta in many fics, and it low-key kind of concerns me how common it is. 
> 
> But that's just my two cents. So enjoy the update, and I hope to have the next one out soonish! 
> 
> If anyone has idea for letters, topics, or just ideas in general for this fic, please let me know in a comment!
> 
> ~S~

**Author's Note:**

> WELP. It's official. I'm riding this fic till the wheels fall off. Fock. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> ~S~


End file.
